


Small Talk

by SilverInk



Series: Small Talk [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Developing Friendships, Episode Tag, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Smooching, So so cheesy, Wingwoman Shirley Trewlove, look everyone else is at least a little in love with Morse, the fancyman def is too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-03-13 23:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13581219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverInk/pseuds/SilverInk
Summary: “George Fancy, Detective Constable.”“DI Thursday." The other man behind Thursday was introduced as DS Morse, and George was immediately, surprisingly struck by how good-looking he was. Those bright eyes, his coppery-gold hair...aka, George Fancy's first cases with the intriguing Detective Sergeant Morse, and the development of their relationship throughout season five.





	1. Muse I

**Author's Note:**

> I return from a long hiatus from writing Endeavour fic to bring you... This!!
> 
> I didn't edit it much, just to warn XD

His first day of work at the Oxford CID was off to a slow start. He arrived at the station at eight and was told to wait until his new DI came back. George sighed and sat down at the nearest desk, which was impeccably clean except for a pen and a newspaper with half the crossword filled out. He flipped to the sports page and read the latest about last weekend’s football match, only getting through the first three paragraphs before he heard the door opening. 

“Fancy, is it?” He looked up to see the man who must be his DI.

“George Fancy, Detective Constable.”

“DI Thursday,” the man introduced himself. The other man behind Thursday was introduced as DS Morse, and George was immediately, surprisingly struck by how good-looking he was. Those bright eyes, his coppery-gold hair… He’d never noticed a man like that before, and he was caught off guard for a moment.

Morse continued to look at him, his eyes startlingly blue, and George realized he was still behind the Sergeant’s desk. Quickly setting the paper down and moving out from behind the desk, he just caught Thursday’s next words:

“Fancy, you can go with Morse, he’s a good man, so watch listen and learn. Got a new scene to check out, on Holywell Lane.”

“Yes, sir.” George felt the excitement bubbling up in him. A case on his very first day here, that’d sure be something to tell his mates on the football team about.

“You’ve got the address, Morse?”

Morse looked a little shocked for a second, then motioned for George to follow him.

“D’you want me to drive?” That was how it worked in CID wasn’t it? The junior officer does the chauffeuring?

“No,” Morse answered curtly, and they were off. They didn’t do much talking during the drive, except for Morse to fill George in on what had happened. Even the man’s voice was beautiful. 

He tried to engage Morse in more conversation about mostly work related things: when did he join the police force? How did he like DI Thursday? How many criminals had he arrested? Morse was slightly less curt when he answered, but he avoided the question of how many arrests he’d made with an amused smirk, and before George had a chance to ask anything else, they arrived at the house.

There was another officer already there, and Morse introduced her quickly as WPC Trewlove. George was more than a little surprised, as well as curious, to see a female officer there, and he blurted the first thing that came to his mind: “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?”

He heard how it sounded right after he said it, mentally cursing himself right along with her when she said, “My job.”

Morse praised her work ethic and seemed mildly irritated when George pointed out what a looker she was. Though he knew it was definitely jumping the gun, George couldn’t help thinking this could mean the sergeant wasn’t even interested in women that way. Maybe he could be interested in George the way George was interested in him.

Very unlikely, but a man could hope, couldn’t he?

As they searched the house for clues, George continued to ask Morse questions.

“What hobbies do you have? Do you like football?” This time, Morse evaded his questions.

“I really don’t go in for small talk, Constable—”

“George,” he corrected. Being called _Constable_ felt wrong, and he wanted to be on first name terms with all his coworkers, especially with Morse.

“—or first names.” _Well, there goes that._ “Look, if we just keep it to work, we should get on fine.”

George couldn’t help feeling disappointed and a little hurt. Morse could make at least a little more effort to be nice. But, George supposed he could still get to know Morse outside of work, get to know not only the serious detective he was here, but the man underneath. He was intriguing, Morse, and George wanted to learn all about him; that would have to be away from work, though, and as he found out how touchy Morse could be, George realized that could be quite tricky.


	2. Muse II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a rewrite of the scene where Morse & Fancy go to Eve Thorne's apartment, and an imagined scene in which Morse apologizes for being hard on Fancy.

After a few days, George was sent with Morse on a stakeout. He still hadn’t gotten to know the Sergeant any better; they got along fine, though Morse was sometimes very prickly, but just as distantly polite work colleagues. Nothing closer than that.

First, they got some quick dinner at a pub, but only because George suggested it. He hadn’t eaten in a while, not to mention he hadn’t seen Morse eat all day; he wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t a little concerned. Having some food did both of them good, and Morse even capitulated to letting George drive, giving him directions to their location.

“So what are we looking for, Sarge?” George asked.

“I’ve got to talk to Eve Thorne, get her side of the story. You just stay out here and wait with the car,” Morse told him, already getting out of the car.

“What? Can’t I come with you?” As excited as he was that Morse had let him drive, George didn’t want to be just the driver. He was still a detective. He rolled down the window and Morse put a hand on the door frame.

“No, just stay out here. I’ll try not to be long.” He tapped his fingers on the car door, then turned and headed toward Eve Thorne’s apartment, his coat swishing behind him.

 _Alright then_. George sighed and turned on the radio, finding his favorite station to try and pass the time. He had no idea how long Morse would be. He grabbed the newspaper from the back seat, and then a pencil from the glove compartment. For all he knew, he could be great at crosswords, and he wanted to try it.

The minutes went by. He found out he wasn’t very good at crosswords, and put the newspaper and pencil in the glove compartment. It was about half an hour until Morse came back, and he immediately made George turn the radio off.

“Is this your idea of discrete observation? This isn’t a concert hall.”

George didn’t even think he’d had it that loud. “Sorry.”

“Go back to the station and get this lot booked into evidence,” Morse told him, putting what looked like Eve’s white raincoat and a pair of heels into the back seat. “Did you get the evidence from Joey Sykes’s flat booked yet?”

 _Oh no._ He’d completely forgotten about that. He’d started to book the things in, but got distracted going through that trunk of magazines and never finished. Next to him, Morse sighed.

“Is this what I have to look forward to? If I want something done, I have to do it myself?”

“No, I just forgot, I’m sorry—“ George tried. 

“You’re not paid to forget. You’re paid to remember,” Morse interrupted, not in the mood for any excuses.

God, George couldn’t believe this. He’d tried to remember, but to be honest booking evidence was pretty boring, and it was hard to take seriously as real work. As bad as he felt for slipping up as a policeman and not taking his job seriously, he felt even worse for disappointing Morse. He wanted Morse to respect him, but now Morse must think George was incompetent; George buried his face in his hands. He’d really messed this up.

***

Over the next several days, George put more effort into doing his job well, interviewing suspects and following leads along with Morse and Thursday to get the case resolved. He heard the day after it happened that their killer, Ruth Astor, had killed herself. Eve Thorne had known her and helped to some degree, but wasn’t arrested. Morse told him the whole story, and George couldn’t help feeling a little sad about it for the rest of the morning.

But that afternoon, when George was working on paperwork at his desk, he was surprised to see Morse standing by the edge of the desk, looking more shy and hesitant than George had seen him before. He took a deep breath, pressing his fingertips to the desk.

“Fancy, I know I’ve been awfully hard on you, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry for that. You’ve been working hard, and it’s not easy to remember the procedures, I should know.” His face was very earnest in a way George hadn’t seen before, but which he immediately fell in love with. “I was caught up in the case; I didn’t want any mistakes to be made that would let the killer get away.”

George flashed him a smile, warmth flooding through him at the sincerity of the apology. It was completely unexpected, and that made it feel even more meaningful. 

“I appreciate that, Morse. Thank you. And I get it to some degree. I mean, I don’t want a killer to get away any more than you do.” Morse returned the smile, his former hesitation melting off him in relief.

“I’m sure you’ll turn out to be an outstanding policeman, George. Ah, I mean Fancy. Constable Fancy.” George couldn’t help grinning, beyond thrilled, as Morse stuttered and tried to cover up his slip. But it was then that Thursday called Morse into his office, and Morse gave George a quick nod and all but ran to Thursday’s office, thankful to have an excuse to get out of the awkward situation.

George’s good mood lasted the rest of the day, not even dulled by the tedium of paperwork.


	3. Cartouche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George & Shirley Trewlove get to know each other & have some drinks together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I guess we're assuming chapter 2 didn't actually happen here...

When he suggested that Bevis could’ve gotten his drink from a nearby pub, George was surprised by the considering silence that followed. It hadn’t seemed that much of a stretch to him—he and his friends very often brought drinks from pubs or restaurants into the cinema—but it was with some disbelief that Superintendent Bright assigned him to investigate his new theory. He started the next day, and no one in the first four pubs he tried had seen Bevis, and George started to get discouraged and a little bored. At the fifth pub he got a pint, and then another before starting to feel slightly tipsy, like the lightweight he was. 

He looked at his watch: it was approaching 3:00, and he realized he should be back at the station by now. With a feeling of dread, he realized just how upset Morse was going to be that he went and did exactly what Morse told him not to do. There was a coffee shop right next door, and George downed a quick cup before heading back to the station, feeling a bit more sober. But Morse noticed he’d been drinking, of course he did, and he chastised George, disappointment clear on his face. 

“Don’t ever come in here half-cocked again, do you understand?” he said forcefully. “This isn’t a game.” George could only nod, his heart plummeting instantly. For the rest of the afternoon he felt embarrassed and ashamed for disappointing Morse like that, and he kept his head down and tried to focus on his work.

Later, after work, George found himself in the pub again, intent on spending the whole evening there and drowning his sorrows. He couldn’t believe how badly the day had gone—not only was the most attractive, wonderful man he’d ever met disappointed and angry with him, but he’d screwed up on the job yet again. Before now, he hadn’t been able to keep a job for long; he’d worked as a salesman, a cashier, a waiter, and he’d managed to mess up on all of them and get himself fired.

He’d worked hard at this job, though, and he thought he’d be able to be really successful and keep his position for a long time. But the disappointed look on Morse’s face… 

“You look like you’ve just lost a shilling and found a sixpence.” A familiar voice startled him out of his thoughts: WPC Trewlove.

“Oh, don’t you start,” George groaned, half wishing he could disappear into the floorboards. He just wanted to sulk alone for a while; he didn’t need her getting on his back, too.

“What’s happened?” Her soft voice sounded genuinely concerned, her brows drawn together. Perhaps she wasn’t here to tell him off, maybe she really was just concerned for him.

“I’m in the doghouse, aren’t I?” George told her, feeling even more miserable now that someone else was here to see how pathetic he was. Trewlove sat down next to him and looked at him in concern.

George sighed. “I was supposed to go around to pubs in the area of the cinema, find out if anyone had seen Bevis the night he died. But instead I ended up spending an hour in there drinking, and now Morse is giving me a hell of a time.”

Trewlove touched his arm sympathetically. “Don’t let it get to you. Morse is just… He takes his job very seriously, you know? He doesn’t always understand when other people aren’t as serious.”

“I really wanted to make a good impression, though, you know? I wanted him to like me.”

She nodded, biting her lip and looking over to the bar. Sighing, George took a long drink from his pint and put his head in his hands.

“I get it, Fancy, I really do—”

“George,” he corrected before he could stop himself. At Trewlove’s look, he clarified, “You can just call me George.” Her face broke into a smile, and she nodded.

“George. You can call me Shirley then.” Smiling too now, George raised his pint glass in her direction. He realized suddenly that she hadn’t gotten a drink yet.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Yeah, why not,” Shirley said, still grinning. “I’ll have a pint, then.”

When she’d gotten her drink, she said, “As I was saying, George, I really do get it. It’s hard when you feel like people don’t think you’re capable of certain things. But give it time, and you’ll earn his trust and respect.” Those words made him feel better than he had all day, and George squeezed her arm.

“Thanks, Shirl.”

There was a pause, and then she spoke again, her voice suddenly nervous. “I should tell you… I’m really not interested in you like that. As a friend certainly, but more than that…”

George moved away from her a little, and her face showed just as much nervousness, though she was trying to hide it. Realizing with a guilty feeling that she was nervous of _him,_ George pulled back even more, shaking his head earnestly.

“No, no of course not. I’m—I’m not interested in you like that either, not with Morse and his bloody gorgeous face around, but I’d love it if we could be friends.” He only realized what he’d said after it was out, and Shirley was looking at him in surprise and delight. _Oh no… oh no, she better not tell him…_

“Morse? You’re interested in Morse?” she asked, and George buried his face in his hands again and gave her a muffled, “Yes.”

“And it’s just my luck, isn’t it?” he continued, looking up again. “He’s completely oblivious and he doesn’t even like me! I think he hates me.”

“Oblivious, definitely,” Shirley giggled. “He doesn’t even know you, though, he doesn't hate you. I’m sure as he gets to know you, he’ll come to like you.”

It felt more like Morse was starting to like him less and less as they got to know each other, but maybe that would change eventually. He appreciated the thought, though.

“Don’t you dare tell him.” George pointed a finger at her mock-threateningly. “I don’t need him disliking me even more than he already does.”

She mimed zipping her lips. “Not a word, I promise.” 

“Thanks.”

They’d both finished their beers by now, and Shirley stood to get them a second round. When she came back, the conversation shifted to more cheerful things; they talked about music and film and their hobbies, and George learned that Shirley loved the Rolling Stones and The Kinks, and that she was interested in football but knew next to nothing about any other sport. George was getting tipsy and tried to explain the rules of cricket to her, and when he tried to demonstrate how to throw the ball, he almost hit a passing waiter and Shirley dissolved into giggles. 

“That’s the goal, is it? Just hit as many waiters as possible?”

George laughed loudly. “Now you’re getting it!”

They stayed until late into the night, learning more about each other, joking, drinking, sharing gossip from work, and talking more about George’s feelings for Morse. 

“He’s gorgeous, Shirley. He could never feel the same way, though. He’s too good for me anyway.”

“You should try and talk to him outside of work. Invite him to a pub sometime! I can go with you if it’d make you feel better?” Shirley suggested. “Just get to know him as a friend and go from there! Whatever happens happens, you know?”

When they eventually went home, George felt better than he had all day. Even if the man he wanted to be with didn’t notice him, at least he had a friend who supported him now.


	4. Passenger

For the first time since joining the force, George felt like a real policeman. A young man and his sister-in-law had shown up at the station first thing that morning to report the man’s wife missing, and George was assigned to take their statements. He made sure to be thorough, asking when they’d last seen Frances, the missing woman; what she’d been doing the night of her disappearance; if she’d taken anything with her. After he showed the pair out of the station, George offered to copy his notes for Morse, expecting the case to be put in the hands of a senior officer now.

“Missing person?” Morse said, “Work for a detective constable, you can do it.”

“Really?” George couldn’t believe he was being put in charge of his first proper case. Morse must like him a lot better than he let on to give him his own case. “Alright. Okay.”

“Do as you think best,” Morse advised him, and George couldn’t believe this. Was Morse really putting trust in his judgement?

He put his coat on and turned to leave, and when he was at the door, turned around to face Morse again. “I won’t miss anything,” he promised.

“I know.” Morse smiled, and warmth filled George’s chest. He hoped Morse really did trust him; he wanted to do his best to properly earn it.

He went to the last place Mrs Porter was meant to have been, All Souls Church. The staff there were understandably suspicious and concerned to have a police officer asking questions about Mrs Porter, but they gave him all the information he needed after he assured them she wasn’t in trouble. They all said the missing woman hadn’t been there for several months after calling in sick, and wished him luck in finding her and returning her to the people who loved her.

Back at the station, George filled Strange and Morse in on the new details. Almost right away, DI Thursday assigned him to a different case; he’d be working with a DI Box and DS Dawson from the robbery division, and George was already missing his first case. Box seemed to like bossing lower-ranking people around and treating them however he wanted. Which was usually pretty badly.

That impression was only confirmed when Shirley Trewlove appeared next to their observation car while she was on meter duty. Box and Dawson were immediately annoyed, and it only seemed to make it worse when George told them she knew what she was doing and wouldn’t blow their cover.

“On your way, girlie,” Box told her through the open window. “Robbery. DI Box.”

George couldn’t have been more proud of Shirley when she told them they were parked on a double yellow line, and “they’d stand out like spare pricks” if she didn’t have them move, and he couldn’t help snickering. Damn right she knew what she was doing.

As the day went on Box became more and more condescending and irritating, and when George was finally done with the both of them for the day, the first thing he did was go to the river. Watching the rowers was relaxing, and George was glad to finally have some time alone. He sighed. This job wasn’t what he’d expected at all. Things had gone so well that morning, but now he was irritated and sick of not being taken seriously. At least Morse was starting to take him more seriously now…

“Just so you know, I won’t be diving in after you,” came Shirley’s voice next to him. He hadn’t even noticed her approaching.

“Don’t tempt me,” he answered, smirking a little. “Try spending half a day with those two. They treat me like I’m bloody invisible,” he added after a pause. “Can’t stand it.”

“Well I know what that feels like,” Shirley said, sitting down next to him. Another boat of rowers passed them, shouting to each other.

“You might take a look at Lloyd Collins,” Shirley suggested after a few moments of comfortable silence. “He’s got a records stall on the street market. Got a van registered to 43-B Hartford Road.”

“And?” George prompted, curious.

“Well, he’s not above dealing in stolen goods. There’s an LP in there from Morse’s flat. He was burgled last autumn.” She didn’t seem to make too much of it. Just told him she’d unearthed this potentially huge scheme like it was nothing.

“With a collar like that, you could make a name for yourself,” he told her. She could be a sergeant, a DI even, in no time with how good she seemed to be at this, but she just laughed. “So, why tell me?”

“Because I’m all heart,” she joked. “You’re the detective. I’m just a uniform, remember?”

 

***

 

Later that night, George found himself at Strange’s house, sharing Chinese takeaway and watching football together. He’d told the sergeant about his hard day, and Strange had offered to cheer him up with good food and sport, and how could George say no to that? It was nice to just relax, no talking about the job, or George’s thing for Morse.

Morse could’ve not even existed for the moment. But then, the man himself walked through the door (George couldn’t believe he’d forgotten Morse was living with Strange now), almost immediately grabbing a beer from the fridge, muttering something about how it shouldn’t even be in the fridge, “it’s bitter, not lager.” Strange and George shared an amused look, and went back to their Chinese food. Morse got them talking about the case, and George shared the information Shirley had told him that afternoon.

As the night wore on, Morse eventually disappeared, most likely to his room; when George noticed, he checked his watch and realized how late it was getting.

“I should probably get going home,” he told Strange regretfully, and Strange reached to check his own watch.

“Oh, right, yeah, is that the time?” 

He helped clean up, then left the house with a quick, “See you tomorrow!” As he was leaving, he saw Morse again just for a quick moment; the other man had come out to the kitchen again and was wearing a tank top and loose flannel pants. George nearly froze in his tracks, tripping on the stairs outside as he tried not to act too conspicuous. It was certainly the most informal he’d ever seen Morse, and he never thought he’d see so much of his body uncovered. George had to take a few seconds to calm down before driving back to his own flat, doing his best not to imagine what the rest of his body looked like. Even when he got home, he absolutely didn’t think about the very attractive freckles that covered Morse’s face and arms, and probably his chest and legs too, and he most definitely didn’t think about what it would be like to be held in those arms at night, or what it would feel like to have Morse’s weight on top of him, both of them naked and panting...

He buried his face in his hands. _This is bloody ridiculous, I’m so done for._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really am having too much fun with this XD


	5. Colours

“Fancy!” shouted Morse, “stay still!”

“What?” George turned, alarmed and confused now, and saw Sergeant Major Davis practically holding Morse back. He thought he heard them saying something about a mine field, and he gripped the beret he’d found on the ground tightly in both hands.

“Stay completely still, a soldier will come fetch you!”

 _Oh God I’m not gonna get fired this time, I’m gonna get killed._ George twisted the rough wool in his hands, forcing himself to breathe deeply. After what felt like an eternity, a soldier came out with a metal detector and told George to follow right behind him. Nodding, he grabbed onto the man’s backpack like it was a lifeline, and tried to focus on Morse’s voice telling him he was going to be fine.

“Whatever you say,” he couldn’t help quipping. As soon as he was safe, Morse tore into him, demanding to know why he’d gone out there. George straightened up even though he was still gasping for air, because arguing with your superior when you’re bent over and out of breath was humiliating, and George really didn’t need that on top of nearly dying. He thrust the beret into Morse’s hands, and Morse become quiet and thoughtful as he looked it over, mind focusing back on the case.

***

The investigation continued, and the clues collected from the beret gave them a suspect: Private Oswald. Strange and Morse interrogated him at the station, and then arrested him. Morse didn’t seem to think he’d actually murdered Jean Ward—or Moira Creighton-Ward, whatever her name was—and suggested that he’d been telling the truth when he said he lost his beret in the woods and someone else picked it up.

“Rather fortuitous, wouldn’t you say?” Bright’s tone was disbelieving, skeptical. Even Strange thought the idea was a bit crazy, but Morse held his own and explained his theory for them. Later that day Morse and George found a connection to the Dr Laidlaw who taught the soldiers on base military history. He had been engaged to marry Moira.

As the investigation went on, the photographer, Mr Farridge, was shot and they let Private Oswald go, Morse and Strange continuing to investigate Moira’s family and the officer who’d checked out the gun.

After not too long, Morse called the station to say he’d solved it—it was Dr Laidlaw who'd killed both Moira and Farridge—and he needed backup, and George could only take a moment to feel proud before he, Strange, and Thursday headed to the base. They went into the woods, gunshots echoing around them, and George’s heart was loud in his ears.

“Over here.” Thursday directed them toward the minefield, and George felt suddenly sick.

_No no no…_

The three of them got there just as Laidlaw stepped on a land mine. Morse was face down on the ground; there was some blood on his temple, but otherwise he didn’t seem to be hurt. George took a deep breath. A soldier with a metal detector went out and brought Morse to safe ground, and George was finally able to relax, eyes slipping closed and silently thanking God.

Back at the station, George and Strange started on the paperwork while Thursday and Morse stayed at the base to finish some more business there. He didn’t realize just how rattled he was until he nearly spilled steaming hot tea into his lap because his hands were still shaking.

“You alright matey?” Strange asked him. George nodded.

“Yeah I’m fine.” A pause. “What a case, though, right? And Morse nearly getting shot…” He looked up at the sergeant again, hoping he'd understand his meaning.

“That tends to happen with him. He seems to be a magnet for on-the-job injuries, I dunno what it is." Strange's tone was light and joking, and George smirked a little. Strange continued on a more serious note. “Morse’ll be alright. Don't you worry. He’ll get through, always does.” 

George didn’t even know Morse and Thursday had come back until a little later when he looked up from his paperwork and saw Morse sat at his own desk. It was like he’d just materialized out of thin air, and now he was working on paperwork of his own. He still had blood in his hair, though it was mostly dried by now, and he put his head in his hands like he had a bad headache.

The tapping of the typewriters suddenly seemed loud in the small, tiled room, and George could feel a headache coming on himself. Doubtless the adrenaline rush hadn’t helped. Every few minutes, he threw a glance toward Morse, and after hardly more than an hour the sergeant already looked worse off. He had his head on his desk, and when he got up to get a cuppa from the canteen, he looked slightly unbalanced.

“Fancy?” Strange appeared at his desk. “Give Morse a quick lift home, will you? I think he’s got a bit of a concussion.” 

“Yeah, of course.” Morse tried to protest, of course, but Strange managed to get him into a car without too much fuss.

“Thanks matey,” he said, clapping George’s shoulder, and George gave him a nod.

The drive was comfortably quiet, except for a few quick words when George asked how Morse was feeling, and how hard he’d hit his head; it was a nice change from the noise of the station. 

At the house, George helped Morse in despite his mild protests and insistence that he was fine, he was “perfectly capable of getting himself sorted.” Morse laid down on the sofa, pulling a throw blanket over himself and sighing in relief.

“D’you need anything?” George asked. In all honesty, it seemed all Morse really needed at the moment was a few hours of sleep, maybe some food. Morse shook his head, and it was then that George noticed the blood still on his forehead and hairline. He frowned.

“Hang on a minute.”

It took some searching for George to find a cloth and douse it in water, and he came back to find Morse in the same position. He looked knackered.

“I’m gonna try and clean that cut on your head, that ok? Still looks like it’s bleeding some.”

Morse tried to turn away at first, and George realized how cold the cloth was.

“Sorry,” he said softly, wincing a little in sympathy. He gently touched Morse’s chin and tilted his head up, trying to make quick work of the injury, and covering it with an adhesive bandage. When he was all done, he couldn’t resist combing his fingers through Morse’s hair, just to sweep it out of his face of course, and it was slightly tangled, but so soft. He wanted to bury his fingers in the beautiful curls, and his fingers twitched with the effort of holding back when Morse hummed and leaned into him just a bit.

“Thanks, Fancy,” Morse murmured. George drew in a breath and pulled himself back a step. Luckily Morse didn’t seem bothered by George getting familiar with cleaning his injury, and George gave him a nod, relieved.

“It’s no problem. Get some rest, alright?”

The drive back to the station was too short, and George’s mind was somewhere else entirely for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morse probably should’ve gone to the hospital instead, but I had to do it like this for the sake of the story!! Dont take this as medical advice! X’D
> 
> Please leave a comment & tell me what you think!!


	6. Quartet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited March 23, 2018

George had done many embarrassing things in his life, but tripping in front of a crowd of thousands, plus a million other viewers on the telly, at an international sporting event had to be right near the top of his list. His ankle was only sprained, but the doctor didn’t think it was a good idea for him to participate anymore.

Luckily, Morse had been in the crowd and was able to step in for him, quickly changing into the uniform and then the giant costume in one of the tents. George did his best not to stare too much, but the t-shirt and sweatpants looked awfully good on him, and he was only human.

“Alright, here goes,” Morse grinned at him.

“Good luck! You’ll do great.”

From inside the tent, George could hear the announcer sounding very excited; “Great Britain in the lead, and he’s not even pausing for breath!” George grinned; he tried to get up to see the race but the weight hurt his injury too much to stand for long, and he sat down again, pressing the ice pack onto his ankle. Morse was back in the tent in no time, his hair sweaty and clearly proud of himself.

“Well done! I owe you one,” George told him.

“You owe me more than one.” Morse shot him a quick grin. “How’s the ankle?”

Shrugging a little histrionically, George answered, “I’ll live.”

Jim, Dr. DeBryn, and Shirley came in after Morse to congratulate him, but then had to leave again at the sound of a woman’s panicked shouts. Not long after, Jim came back to tell George that the German competitor who they thought had passed out, was dead.

“You ok to walk, matey? You and Trewlove can talk to his coach.” George nodded, and Jim helped him stand.

The coach told them the man who’d died was a Karl Pfuscher, who’d been a translator before moving to Germany. They only got to investigate a little more into Pfuscher and a second dead man who was found, Werfeli, before a team from Special Branch took it over. As frustrating as it was, there was nothing George could do but go home.

He decided to take a walk in one of Oxford’s many parks to get his mind off things, as many other people seemed to be doing. There were couples and families and a few people on their own out enjoying the sunshine, having picnics, boating out on the river… George stopped in the middle of a high bridge that stretched over the river as he realized one of the boaters looked familiar.

As he looked closer, the man was unmistakeable: bright sunlight catching his red hair, a rumpled dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a blue tie, a bright smile that was easy to see even from far away—it had to be Morse. And with him, a woman smiling and laughing too, taking his picture. George stopped breathing momentarily, his heart dropping to his shoes. Then he saw Shirley on the other side of the bridge and caught her eyes.

“I, ah, I didn’t know Morse had a girl,” he said, trying to sound casual but missing by damn near a mile from the look she gave him.

“What?”

“You don’t have to pretend not to mind,” she told him matter-of-factly, and George was grateful not for the first time for how honest and straightforward she was. “That’s some rough stuff, finding out that the person you like is already seeing someone else.” A pause, then, “D’you want a pint?”

George sighed. As nice as a pint sounded right then, he was starting to get annoyed at himself for going and getting smashed every time he got upset over a man he could never be with anyway. Morse was in a relationship with a woman, a happy and functional relationship from the looks of things, and George could be fine with that. His heart sank, and he definitely didn’t feel fine. He felt bloody awful, to be honest.

“Yeah, alright, let’s go.” What the hell, he’d do the same thing if he found out a girl he was interested in was already with someone, even if he had no chance with her. Just because Morse was a man who he couldn’t be with, shouldn’t change his reaction. “Thanks, Shirl.”

She grinned. “It’s no problem. This is what friends are for, right?”

After they’d had lunch and a couple pints, George announced, “Y’know, I don’t even like Morse. He can do whatever he wants. I don’t care at all. He’s just a co-worker, and he’s annoying too, y’know? Always criticizing me to death.” He groaned, feeling bad even saying the words. “This isn’t working Shirley, he’s amazing and I still love him.”

Shirley laughed. “He probably won’t be in a relationship forever. And you never know, maybe he’s interested in both women and men.”

“Do you think so?”

Finishing off her pint, she shrugged. “I really couldn’t tell you.”

“I keep getting this vibe that he does like the blokes, but I didn’t figure out _I_ liked blokes until recently, so I’m not the best judge. I hope so, though.”

Shirley nodded. “Yeah I hope he does, too.” She grinned teasingly. “Maybe then I won’t have to put up with your pining anymore.”

“Shirley!”

 

***

 

Over the next few days, George didn’t see much of Morse, which he was glad of; the man was distracting him enough as it was, almost always somewhere in the back of his mind, and the times he did see Morse, something deep in his chest ached with longing. Morse was still working on the Pfuscher and Werfeli case, against orders, and George couldn’t help being a little proud, though Bright was furious when he found out. George was working with Jim to try and find Cromwell Ames and arrest Eddie Nero, with little success so far. 

After he, Thursday, and Bright failed to convince Nero to give them Ames’s location, George helped Morse search through the rooms of a suspect in the Pfuscher case, even finding a vital clue that led Morse to discover the rest of the spy ring he’d been investigating. Morse bolted from the suspect’s room to pursue the lead, and George only got the full story from him the next day.

“So Richmond and Mullion were north and south, and Mr. and Mrs. Dozier were east and west,” Morse explained. “Just like the clock and the painting of Big Ben.”

George grinned at him. “That was some regular Sherlock Holmes stuff.” Morse scoffed, shaking his head disbelievingly. “I’m telling you, it was impressive!”

Now Morse was smiling too, though it seemed a little sad, and he shrugged. “Glad at least someone appreciates my talents.” Butterflies fluttered somewhere in George’s chest at hearing Morse say he appreciated something George had said.

The day went on uneventfully, full of paperwork, case reports, and one report of a stolen car that was quickly resolved. The squares of sunlight coming through the windows moved slowly but steadily across the floor, and after what felt like ages, five-o’clock rolled around. Jim had invited George to the house again for takeaway and watching a football match, so he took the bus with Jim and Morse back to their house.

It was Thai tonight, and this time Morse stayed out with them to eat, and tried to follow the match. He knew basically nothing about sports and George did his best to explain the rules, laughing, not at Morse—never _at_ Morse—but with him, and soon Morse was laughing too. The three of them stayed up long after the match had finished, talking about sports and their favorite teams and players, and George and Jim even tried to recreate some of the famous goal scores in the tiny living room, mostly unsuccessfully.

George ended up staying the night on their couch, and for most of the night, he got the best sleep he’d had on someone else’s couch in ages. But in the early hours of the morning, he heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. It was Morse, his hair tousled from sleep, sighing softly as he entered the kitchen and started tea.

“Can’t sleep?” Morse seemed startled to hear George’s voice, like he’d forgotten he was there, and then he shook his head a little. 

“Not really,” he replied softly. “Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s not a big deal, I was awake anyway,” George half lied, though Morse probably saw right through it. “What’s keeping you up?”

Morse poured the tea into a mug. “Do you want some?”

George nodded. “Sure, thanks.”

With the two mugs in hand, Morse settled in the chair across from George. They sipped their tea in comfortable silence for a moment, then Morse spoke again, answering George’s question.

“I just—this merger at the station, it feels like it’s going to change everything. Thursday’s already told me he’s leaving, and I’m sure Bright’s going to leave too, and probably most everyone I’ve gotten to know and be close to, is going to leave as well."

George’s eyebrows raised slightly. When he’d tried to talk to Morse about himself, and learn more about him, he’d been reserved and closed off, and now here he was, opening up about his life and his feelings unprompted. He was surprised to say the least, but he figured Morse might just want to talk to him on his own terms instead of answering all George’s questions. Besides, they knew each other better now, it felt much less awkward.

“You’ll still be able to see all of us from the station. Just because we won’t all work together doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.”

“Yes, but… we’ll all be busy with our new jobs. We’ll most likely grow apart.” The frown on his face deepened. “And I’ve never had much luck with my romantic life either. I'll be alone there, too.” And then, so quietly George wasn’t sure he was meant to hear, “My romantic partners always seem to leave, too.”

“You don’t have anyone?” What about the woman he’d seen Morse with on the river?

Morse shook his head. “I had a girl for a while recently, but… she left the country.” He met George’s eyes briefly and shrugged a little helplessly.

Heart dropping, throat tightening, George couldn’t help feeling a little angry at this woman. Clearly Morse had liked her a lot. Had she even said goodbye?

“Maybe it was for the best,” he continued, looking down at the mug in his hands. “Maybe the universe wants me to find someone else. Or just be alone for the rest of my life.”

“Hang on, that is _not_ true!" Now he was angry at Morse, for daring to suggest something like that. "You won’t be alone for your whole life, there are lots of people who’d love to be with you, lots of people who love you, _I for one_ —” George cut himself off, shocked at how far he’d let that go, Morse’s piercing eyes watching him carefully. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.

“George… Do you…?” The question was asked softly, tentatively, and if George’s heart hadn’t been pounding before, it was now. Morse must have found him out. Of course he had, it wasn’t like George had hidden it too well.

“I—well, uhm—” he couldn’t look at Morse, but he knew Morse was still watching him intently, could imagine the scrutinizing look in his eyes. Clearing his throat, he finally managed to look up at Morse’s face. George didn’t know what he’d expected to see there—shock, disgust, the righteous anger that seemed to make him positively _glow_ —but it certainly wasn’t the soft hopefulness and apprehension that he was met with.

George searched his face carefully, before nodding just a little. Disbelieving happiness spread across Morse’s face, and George swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat, his eyes moving somewhere behind Morse’s shoulder. Could this really be happening? Did Morse really feel the same? His heartbeat was almost painful in his chest, and he twisted the blanket in his fingers.

Something in his expression must have changed, because the next instant, Morse's control seemed to break and he was leaning forward out of his chair. He stopped inches away from George, looking down to his lips for just a second. Morse licked his own lips, drawing in a shaky breath.

“Can—can I kiss you?”

George didn’t answer, instead surging forward and pressing his lips against Morse’s, like he’d imagined so many times. It didn’t last long, and Morse’s eyes were blown wide when George pulled back. Carefully setting his mug on the coffee table, George touched Morse’s hand reassuringly, and his other hand moved to the back of Morse’s neck, lightly stroking his thumb along his jaw. Their eyes met for a moment, Morse’s wide and vulnerable, before George drew him in again for a deep, heartfelt kiss that seemed to last an eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do confessions of love always either happen in pubs or late at night in all my fics?? I know this was incredibly cheesy but I make no apologies XD


	7. Icarus I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the support and love for this fic!!! It means the world <3
> 
> Also, just a note, I've also made some edits to chapter 6 today (March 23) so if you read it before then, you might want to give it another read!
> 
> (the timeline for this is totally wrong I'm sure ahsjkafjk sorry for that! starts right after the end of the last chapter.)

In the morning, George woke practically on top of Morse, his head resting against Morse’s chest and their legs tangled together under the blanket. Morse was awake already, and he grinned when he saw George was awake too, running a hand through George’s hair. Breath catching in his throat, George felt almost overwhelmed with fondness and the realization that the thing he’d thought was impossible for so long, was actually happening. He kissed along Morse’s jaw and then his lips, and grinned back.

“Morning,” Morse said laughingly, his eyes sparkling.

“Morning, love.” For a few minutes, they just lay warm and comfortable in each other’s arms, not talking but just enjoying each other’s presence, and forgetting the existence of the world outside of their own space.

Eventually Morse suggested that they should get up soon, before Strange came down to make breakfast. 

“We’re not going to tell him?” George asked. He realized how dangerous telling anyone could be, but he wished they could tell more of their friends. The fewer people who knew, the better, though, he supposed; he’d been really lucky Shirley had been so understanding when he told her.

“Not yet, at least,” Morse answered, pressing a kiss to George’s hair. “I think we should keep this just to the two of us for now. It could be dangerous to tell anyone about this, except maybe one or two trusted friends. The fewer people who know about us the better,” he added, echoing George’s own thoughts.

“One or two trusted friends, you say?” George asked, suddenly nervous to tell him Shirley knew. It didn’t seem he wanted anyone else to. “Shirley Trewlove’s known I fancy you for about a month now.”

Morse’s eyes widened. “A month?” A nod. Morse huffed a breath of laughter and tightened his arms around George, kissing the top of his head again.

"You've fancied me for that long?" he asked. George nodded again, and Morse grinned, pressing soft kisses to his lips.

There was a pause where they just looked into each other's eyes, and George took a moment to enjoy that this was actually happening. He still couldn't believe it. Then Morse broke the silence. “I suppose Trewlove is trustworthy, then, if she hasn’t told anyone else.”

“Of course she wouldn’t tell anyone!” George giggled. “She knows the risks. I think she’s the best person I could’ve told, honestly.”

Morse laughed too. “I think you’re right.”

 

***

 

George, Morse, and Jim went into work together, and as soon as George saw Shirley he gestured wildly toward the canteen. He needed to tell her about this new development, somewhere other people wouldn’t hear them, and the canteen was usually pretty empty this time of day. A look inside showed it was completely crowded, however, and Shirley motioned for him to follow her down to the evidence room.

“What is it?” she asked eagerly once they were in, whirling around to face him.

“I snogged Morse last night,” he told her, nearly bursting with excitement, barely managing to keep his voice a whisper.

“You what?!” she demanded eagerly in a barely-suppressed whisper, searching his face disbelievingly, and George nodded.

“I went to Jim’s again to watch the football and eat takeaway, and then I slept over on their couch, and Morse came down in the middle of the night, and we talked, and then we kissed, and oh my God I think I love him!” George said it all in a frantic rush, and Shirley squealed and hugged him tightly.

“I’m so happy for you Georgie! You know what? We should all celebrate later! My house. I’ve got a really good bottle of champagne that I’ve been dying for an excuse to drink, and this is perfect!” George nodded excitedly.

“Oh,” she gasped, glancing at the clock in the corner of the room, “we should really get back upstairs before they send out a search party.” 

Looking at his watch, George winced. “Yeah, you’re right, let’s get going. I’m all for celebrating with champagne later though!”

Back in the office, a report of a dead teacher at a local boys’ school, a John Ivory, had come through. George thought it would be easily resolved with a few interviews with the other teachers and students, but Morse and Thursday evidently thought otherwise since another DI and his bagman had been killed on the case. The two of them disappeared into Thursday’s office for about ten minutes to talk it over, then called Shirley in and talked for another five. They came out again, looking a little grim, and Morse locked eyes with George as Thursday announced that Morse was going to go undercover as a teacher at the school, and Shirley was going undercover as his wife.

“Strange, you and I’ll be working the case from the outside. Fancy, you’re still on the search for Cromwell Ames.” George nodded in acknowledgement. “Right. That’s the job, let’s get to it.”

With everyone milling around after the announcement, George was able to grab Morse’s wrist and get him alone in the, thankfully empty, canteen before he headed to the school to start his “new job.”

“Morse… you know what you’re doing, right?” 

“I’ll be fine, George,” Morse whispered, voice assuring and confident. “Don’t worry. Shirley and I won’t blow our cover.”

George sighed, whispering back, “I’ll miss you.”

“It shouldn’t take too long, hopefully. Couple of weeks, maybe.” Hidden under the counter, Morse’s hand reached for George’s, and they both squeezed tightly before Morse had to go, George watching him until Morse disappeared around a corner.

The next day, George was kept too busy by his own case assignment to think much about Morse. Someone had tried to shoot Eddie Nero and his wife from a car, and George, Jim, and Thursday spent a good few hours looking for leads on the shooter. It had to be Cromwell Ames, Thursday told them, so they started focusing even more on finding the man.

They brought Ames to the station eventually, but he denied being involved in the shooting or any of the other incidents they’d thought he was responsible for. His people gave him an alibi for each of the incidents, so they grudgingly had to let him go; they’d get more evidence against him in time, and they’d put him away.

George heard that Morse had found a body in the forest near Ivory’s old house, and of course he’d been the one to find it. After Thursday and Jim investigated the location, and after the school day was over, George couldn’t resist going over to Ivory’s old house to see Morse and Shirley, though he knew he couldn’t stay for long.

When he knocked, Morse opened the door, surprise clear on his face. He was wearing a red wool pullover and black dress pants instead of his usual suit and tie, and the more casual outfit looked extremely good on him.

“George, what—what are you doing here? This is dangerous, we could get caught! _My wife and I_ weren’t even living here when Ivory was killed—”

“I don’t know that, do I?” George suggested. “And maybe there were some other questions I needed to ask you.”

After a moment of hesitation, Morse shrugged, stepping back a little. “You’d better come in then, _officer.”_

Grinning, George went in, and kissed Morse quickly once the door was closed. Morse laughed, pulling him into the living room where Shirley was curled up on the couch with a magazine, music coming from the record player.

“George?” Shirley stood up. “You know you can’t stay long, what are you doing here?”

“Yeah, I know.” He looked over at Morse. “I just… wanted to see you is all.” Morse ducked his head, smiling, and Shirley shook her head, but she was smiling too.

“Go on, you old romantic. I’ll give you two a few minutes.”

“Thanks, Shirl,” George grinned. Turning back to Morse, he wound their fingers together, and then bent down slightly to kiss him properly.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Morse said quietly, his fingers threading through the hair at the nape of George’s neck and his forehead resting against George’s. Warmth glowed in George’s chest, and he pulled Morse closer.

“How’s the teaching thing been going?” he asked after a quiet moment where the only sounds in the room were his and Morse's breathing, and soft jazz music from the record player.

Sighing, Morse shrugged. “It’s been alright.” He pulled back just enough to look at George. “I’m learning as much as I can about this Mr. Ivory, but it’s certainly not easy to keep up the act all the time. Especially since most of the students don’t seem to take me very seriously.”

George just nodded. “From what I’m hearing of the investigation, you’re doing just fine.” Morse shrugged again, not seeming to know what to say, and George couldn’t help but be very endeared, and if possible, even more attracted to him. “So… when can I see you again?” 

“Well—look, I’m not sure if we can do this again,” Morse said apologetically, eyes searching George’s face. “At least until the case is all wrapped up. We can’t let this look suspicious, George.”

Unfortunately, he was right. As much as George wanted to see Morse again, getting caught would be so much worse than going a few days without seeing him. It would undoubtedly end both their careers, and quite possibly worse, and that couldn’t happen. Not to mention, it would also blow Morse and Shirley’s cover.

Sighing, George nodded. “Alright. Yeah, you’re right.” Morse watched his face carefully, and George looked away.

“It’ll be alright. I’m not likely to forget about you, you know.” George huffed a laugh at that, and nodded again. Morse squeezed his hand.

“I know,” George said, squeezing back. A moment of silence, and Morse grabbed George’s tie and pulled him in for another kiss. When they broke apart, footsteps coming out of the kitchen told them Shirley was back.

“You should probably get going, George,” she said. With a last quick peck to Morse’s lips, he broke away and took a step back.

“Thanks for letting me stay for a bit,” he pulled her in for a quick hug.

“Glad you enjoyed yourselves,” Shirley laughed. “Now go on, we can’t blow our cover!”

 

***

 

The next day was mostly taken up with investigations into Eddie Nero and close surveillance of Cromwell Ames. Thursday assigned him to keep close tabs on Ames at all times, and he spent the day in a car monitoring the man’s every move. It was a long, fairly boring day, and George didn’t think Ames was going to do anything of much interest to the police. All he’d done so far was buy groceries and drop off his dry cleaning.

The afternoon dragged on, and George started to feel sleepy; still nothing, unless getting coffee was a cause for suspicion. But by the time it was getting dark, he followed Ames’s car to one of Nero’s pubs, and his mind snapped to attention, suddenly wide awake. He didn’t think Ames was just coming here for a casual dinner with his mates. This had to be something. Ames and four other men got out, all of them carrying large guns, and George’s heart was in his throat. He radioed in to the station, and Jim’s voice on the other end was reassuring.

“Roger that. Stay put, we’re on our way matey.”

A few tense minutes passed, and George heard raised voices and shouts, threats to shoot, and George hadn’t joined the police force to be a hero or anything at all like that, but he realized he couldn’t just wait in the car while he had the chance to prevent dozens of deaths, and bring Oxford’s two most notorious mobsters to justice on top.

Taking a deep breath, he got out of the car, drawing the gun Thursday had given him, just in case. He thought fleetingly of Morse, and what it might do to him if this didn’t work, but a second later he brushed that thought away with a quick shake of his head; of course this would work. He and Morse would both be fine. It had to work.

Another deep breath, and he turned his focus back on the case, going to the door.

“—I could shoot you dead, right now, and I promise you no one could touch me,” came Ames’s voice from inside. Now was his chance. _Please let this work._

“Police!” he shouted. “Don’t move, put the guns down!”

Ames turned to him, looking if anything amused. “What are you going to do to make me? Shoot me with that?” He gestured to the pistol in George’s hand, laughing, and a cold shiver ran down George’s spine.

“I’ve got a cavalry coming. They should be here any minute.” George tried to keep his face blank and serious, trying to project more confidence than he felt in the moment and trying not to let Ames get to him. If he could intimidate them enough to keep them from shooting until the cavalry came, then it’d all be alright.

“A cavalry, eh?” Ames looked thoughtful for a moment, and George’s stomach dropped, realizing what was coming. “We’d better finish this thing now, then.”

And he shot at Nero, and then all hell broke lose. Everyone seemed to be shooting at everyone else, and George completely forgot about his own pistol, letting it drop to the floor. He tried to make a run for the door, but a bullet caught him squarely on the shoulder, then another hit his leg; panic and pain filled him as he fell to the ground, and he couldn’t stifle a loud cry.

_No no no, this can’t be it… !_

He landed hard on the pub’s filthy carpet, his head pounding and his whole body throbbing, and it was almost a blessing when everything went black…


	8. Icarus II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took much longer than I expected it too!!! I’ve had quite a lot going on irl lately, tho, & this ended up extra long so hopefully that makes up for things XD
> 
> Anyway, I’m super excited to present the final chapter of Small Talk!! Thank you so much for all the love this fic has gotten (which has been way more than I expected!) and I hope very much that you enjoy this! Xx
> 
> EDIT: also my sister made a great playlist inspired by this fic!! You can listen here: https://open.spotify.com/user/kirashea5/playlist/7xMbJxHDHCspyjwj2RwZxP

“George! C’mon, Fancy, wake up, just wake up right now—”

“He’s conscious, sir. George? It’s gonna be alright.”

Was that… Thursday? And Strange? He could barely tell them apart. He opened his eyes. All he could see was streaks of yellowish light streaming in unevenly onto the surface above him. Were they in a car? Something jostled them and his leg bumped against something, making him groan loudly, black spots starting to dance across his vision.

“We’re losing him. No no, stay with me, _George_ —!”

That had to be Morse. How big was this car? And was everyone else from CID in here, too? He tried to ask, but then he slipped into unconsciousness again.

***

“—get him prepped for surgery, we have to move quickly—”

“Have you got the anesthetic, nurse?”

“Ready to go doctor, ready when you are.”

“Then let’s get him into surgery, we haven’t got all day—”

***

Full consciousness came to George slowly. The first thing he felt was a dull pain radiating from his shoulder and from his thigh, and then a sudden, sharp pounding in his head that made him groan. He kept his eyes shut, but he could hear people talking quietly, and much closer, the rustle of cloth of someone next to him shifting positions.

He opened his eyes a little to see who it was, but the bright whiteness of the room made his head hurt even more, and he closed them tightly again. He tried again, slowly, and realized all the white light from before was coming from the lights and open windows above him. What he could see of the room was white and sterile, except for the flowers on the bedside table, and there was a curtain behind and to the sides of the bed he was in. Even the sheets on his bed were white and pristine, perfectly clean. He must be in a hospital, he thought.

“George?” The soft, familiar voice caught on the single word, and George recognized it immediately. He turned his head and saw Morse sat in the visitors’ chair beside the bed, a newspaper opened to the still blank crossword section on his lap. Morse’s face looked worn from worry and exhaustion, and his eyes had dark circles under them. It looked like he’d been crying. When he saw George was awake and looking at him, he practically melted with relief and happiness, and he moved to sit on the bed next to him, taking George’s hand in both of his own.

“Hey,” George whispered, trying for a reassuring smile. Speaking was harder than he’d expected, his tongue, his _whole body_ in fact, felt heavy. A teardrop ran down Morse’s cheek and he brought George’s hand to his lips. There was a strange pulling sensation on his hand, and George realized there was an IV drip taped to the back.

“Thank God you’re alright,” Morse murmured, his voice a little unsteady, but unable to stop smiling. “You have no idea how worried I was.” Chest tightening, George moved his hand to Morse’s cheek with some effort and brushed away the streak of tears with his thumb. “How are you feeling, George?”

“I’m fine,” he said gently. “I mean, not great, but I think I’ll be alright.” Morse nodded, carefully brushing a lock of hair back from George’s forehead. He didn’t seem to notice or care that other people in the hospital might see how intimate they were being.

“The doctor was optimistic last time I talked to him,” Morse told him, his hands still wrapped around George’s. “He said you’ve lost a lot of blood, but keeping you on fluids and giving you plenty of bed rest will help your body replace it quickly.” George nodded.

“Yeah, it felt like I’d lost some weight,” he tried to joke, but Morse gave him a sharp, hurt look that surprised George. “No, hey, I’m alright, really,” he said, holding Morse’s gaze and trying to give the words the serious weight Morse needed to hear. The words came out a little over-emphasized with how heavy his tongue felt. “I’m just kidding, I promise.”

“George, you were shot, _twice_ , you’re not alright!” Morse’s voice and face were pained, and George wished he could kiss him, to reassure him that he was safe now. “What were you thinking, going in after them like that?” Morse’s voice was thick now, almost cutting out completely. “We were right behind you with backup. You didn’t have to go in there, George, you could’ve been ki—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, unable to say the words.

Taking a slow, deep breath, George could only squeeze Morse’s hand, then move his hand up to lightly stroke over Morse’s cheek again. Morse’s eyes slipped closed and he took a shaky breath in, then out. The chatter of the other people around them seemed to grow louder, and George moved his hand from Morse’s cheek back to his hands as self-conscious awareness came back to him.

“I just… I need to know you’re really going to be alright.”

“Of course I am. I’m gonna be fine, Morse.” George squeezed Morse’s hand again, and Morse nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching up in what was meant to be a smile.

“Yeah. I know you will.” Morse paused for a second, then, more fiercely, “But you better not do something like that ever again, you understand?”

Before George could reply, a cheerful, smiling nurse pushed one of the bed curtains aside, startling both of them a little.

“You doin’ alright there, love?” she asked, moving to take George’s pulse. “And you should be lettin’ him rest, not telling him off like that. Rest, that’s what he really needs,” she told Morse, and he stuttered a little before recovering.

“Just—just making sure he’s alright. Had to check up.”

The nurse nodded. “Of course, of course, perfectly understandable. But I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow, love, as he really does need to rest now and get his strength back up.”

“Right, yes,” Morse said, standing.

“Visiting hours are ten in the morning to seven at night,” the nurse said, and Morse gave her a nod and a “Thank you,” and nodded to George before turning to go, and George wished he’d stayed a little longer. He was starting to feel tired, though, he realized as he tried to stifle a yawn, and his head was still pounding.

“I’m Lila, by the way, I’ll be lookin’ after you while you’re here, love,” the nurse continued breezily, reaching for some instrument as she spoke. “I’ll just need to take your blood pressure quickly, if that’s alright…” George nodded, giving her a hum of agreement, and Lila wrapped something around his uninjured upper arm. She chattered away as she did, and George didn’t catch most of it.

“Ok, all done love, I’ll let you get some rest now.” She squeezed his arm and put the instruments away.

“Thank you,” George mumbled, and she smiled before turning away and closing the curtains around the bed again. Sighing, George shifted in the small bed to get more comfortable, and pulled the blanket up to his chest. The sounds of other people talking and the warm light pooling over him from the window were soothing, and he shut his eyes and let a deep, restful sleep take him.

***

Later on in the evening, a Dr. Carver—an older man with white hair and horned glasses and a soft Irish accent—came to check on him and adjust his medications, and the intern who was with him changed out his bandages. The doctor told George that the surgery had gone well, and that the surgeon had repaired a nick to the artery in his leg and done his best to remove the threads from George’s suit and jacket that were lodged in both wounds. There was a possibility that some of the threads were still in his body, Dr. Carver said, and they’d need to keep an eye on things to prevent infection.

“When will I be able to go home d’you think?” George asked. Dr. Carver smiled.

“Well, we’ll want to keep you for a while still, at least until you can walk without pain and once we’re sure the wounds aren’t infected. With two bullet wounds, that could take about two weeks. And when you go home, you’ll want to make sure you don’t overexert yourself and clean and re-bandage the wounds every day.” George nodded. “But again, that won’t be for at least two weeks if things go well. Not until you’ve healed and recuperated.”

George nodded again. “Thanks doctor.”

He slept the rest of the night, untroubled by dreams, or pain from his injuries thanks to the extra medication a nurse gave him, and in the morning he was vaguely surprised that he was even able to sleep as much as he had for the past day. Lila came by to give him some breakfast, and even though the hospital food was very strange, George was hungry enough to eat all of it.

A few long hours passed before Morse showed up over lunch break, cheeks flushed from the cold and his chin tucked into his scarf. George suddenly missed being able to go outside and enjoy the fresh air, and he wondered briefly if he could get a nurse to open one of the windows later.

“I can’t stay too long today,” Morse told him, “but I just wanted to see how you were doing.” He still looked worn and concerned from yesterday, and George could see he was trying to figure out how George was with just a glance, like how he analyzed suspects.

“My doctor says I should be free to go in about two weeks if everything goes well,” George said. “And I’ll probably have to use a crutch for a little bit, too.”

Morse nodded. “Two weeks isn’t bad.” He sat down in the visitors’ chair, taking George’s hand after a moment of hesitation.

“So I wanted to tell you,” he continued slowly after a pause, “Dr. DeBryn looked at the bullets that the surgeon removed. They, ah, they didn’t look like they were from any of the guns found at the scene. It looks like the shooter got away.”

A chill ran through George that had nothing to do with the temperature of the hospital. “What? So, whoever shot me is still out there? Was it the same person who fired both shots?”

“It was just one person,” Morse answered wearily. “We’re working on finding him, but…” He shrugged. “It’s a little hard when there are no witnesses still alive.” George nodded numbly. He’d thought everyone, including his shooter, was dead, and he suddenly felt very exposed and vulnerable in the state he was in now. He couldn’t even walk yet. What if the shooter decided to come back and finish the job?

“George…” Morse’s voice penetrated his thoughts, and George met his eyes. “We’ll get him, George, I promise you.” His voice and face were steady, and his eyes were fiery. “You have my word on that.” And George couldn’t help but believe him.

***

Shirley came to see him a little later on, and George was thrilled to see her again.

“You sure are a sight for sore eyes,” he grinned. Her uniform had been replaced with an elegant skirt and light sweater, and she’d brought a bouquet of flowers, which smelled wonderful. She gave him a small, oddly strained smile. A nurse went and got a vase for them, and then Shirley finally sat down, fidgeting nervously.

“Hey now, what’s wrong?” George was a bit concerned now. She wasn’t normally so quiet, at least not around him. It probably had something to do with him having just been shot, to be honest.

“If you’re worried about me,” he started, “Dr. Carver says I should make a full recovery in a couple weeks—”

“No, that’s not it. Well—I mean, it’s part of it. But that makes me feel even worse saying what I have to say.”

George waited for her to continue. This was making him incredibly nervous.

“I should’ve told you earlier… but after this merger at the station goes through, I’m planning to transfer to London to work for the Yard.” As she finished, she finally met his eyes fully, and George blinked, shocked. That wasn’t what he’d expected (he didn’t know what he’d expected) but it didn’t make the news hurt any less.

“You’re—you’re going to work for Scotland Yard?” George asked intelligently. He didn’t know what else to say.

Shirley nodded. “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I really didn’t want to say goodbye, so I tried to wait as long as I could. If I’d known something like this would happen…” She trailed off.

George shook his head. “No, don’t apologize. The Yard will be lucky to have you. You’ll do brilliantly, I know you will.” At that, Shirley gave him a genuine smile.

“Thank you, George.” After a pause, she continued: “Just because we won’t work together doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends. We’ll be able to see each other sometimes, and talk on the phone, write even…”

“Of course we’ll still keep in touch! When do you… y’know, start the new job?” George was happy for her, he really was, but he hated the thought of her living so far away and not being able to see her every day

“In a little over a week. Most of my things are all packed up now, I just have to get them to the new place in London.”

“I wish I could… help you move in or something. Or give you some kind of proper housewarming.”

“No, that’s alright, George.” Shirley shook her head firmly. “You didn’t even know I was leaving until now. But, I’d love it if you, and maybe Morse too, could come over once I’m settled and you’re out of hospital. Maybe then we can have that champagne we were talking about.”

“I’m in.” George grinned. “I’ll ask Morse about it next time he comes by.”

“I still haven’t told him yet,” Shirley confessed. “I’ve been a bit nervous about that. I think he might take it a bit hard…”

George gave a hum of agreement. The two of them seemed close, and they’d known each other for several years before George had joined the force, and they seemed to be kindred spirits of a sort, George thought. Morse would very likely take that kind of parting quite hard, Shirley was right.

“The station’s officially closing the day after tomorrow, I think I’ll wait to tell him then,” she continued, absently, and George nodded.

After that, they changed the subject, talking about the hospital, and George’s condition, and how he liked the medical staff. That eventually changed to a conversation about why on Earth George had decided to go into a building full of armed mobsters, and Shirley seemed to be as upset with him about that as Morse had been.

He tried to explain: “I just thought I could do something to stop it. Thought I could go in there and stop so many people from getting killed. I guess I didn’t think so many of them would have guns, y’know, I thought it was just Ames and his people.”

Nodding slowly, Shirley met his eyes, her own intense. “I understand that. When you have the potential ability to help people, you can’t really do nothing. But… backup was right there. It would’ve been so much safer to wait until you were sure you could stop them.”

Shrugging a little helplessly, George nodded. “Yeah, I should’ve bloody waited, shouldn’t I?” He laughed a little, and Shirley smirked too.

“You’re brave, George. It’s quite admirable, really.” She squeezed his arm, and George smiled.

“Thanks Shirl.”

Not long after that, she was usher out of the room by Lila, coming in with his next meal and another dose of pain medication.

“That your girlfriend?” Lila winked. George barely stifled a laugh. Oh, if she only knew the truth… !

“Yeah, that she is.”

“Hmm, what a lucky man. She must be very proud!”

Nodding, George answered, “I think she is.”

***

The days went on in mostly the same routine of bandage changes, meals, medication doses, sleep. Most days, he continued to get visits from people from the station: Jim, Thursday, even Bright, and, of course, Morse. Morse came often, most days in fact, and George always looked forward to seeing him.

After about a week, he started having nightmares occasionally. Most of them involved him being shot while in hospital, and he’d wake up in a cold sweat, breathing hard; in one of them, he relived the actual moment in the pub, but Morse was there too and both of them got shot. It was so realistic, and he couldn’t get the image of Morse, bloody and gravely injured, out of his mind all the next day. When Morse visited, George told him about the dream, and Morse just held his hand tighter and reassured him that both of them were safe, and there was nothing to worry about.

Time went on, and George started feeling good enough to take short walks around the ward. His muscles were weak from lack of use, and at first he needed a nurse to help him even stand up. It felt good to be able to move a little again, though, and he tried to walk a little more every day, needing less and less help. Morse still visited him most days and would talk with him about the nightmares, and George found that just having someone there to listen helped immensely.

The second week went by fairly quickly, and before too long, George was being released from hospital and allowed to go home. Jim came by to pick him up and take him to his own flat, and he told George about his new station assignment. Apparently George had been assigned to another station in Oxford, and by another stroke of luck (or maybe divine intervention), it was the same station Morse was assigned to, and Jim as well. During his hospital stay, George had done his best not to think about the upcoming change of stations and hadn’t been worrying too much about possibly not being able to work with Morse or his other friends, but this was still a huge relief. Even if Shirley wouldn’t be there anymore, he’d still have Jim and Morse.

Morse was still living with Jim, but the night when George was released, Morse showed up unexpectedly at George’s flat instead, with Indian takeaway for both of them.

“What does Jim know?” George asked once they were seated at the small table. “Where did you tell him you were going?” George knew Morse must still be keeping their relationship secret, but he had to have told Jim something, and Jim probably knew Morse’s other girl had left him.

Taking a careful breath, Morse opened his mouth, seeming to give his answer quite a bit of thought. “I told him. About us,” Morse said, and from how quiet of his voice had gone and the way he was avoiding George’s eyes, George was suddenly terrified it had gone badly, feeling it like ice water in his veins. He took Morse’s hand and Morse looked up at him.

“What did he say?” George asked, trying to act braver than he felt for Morse's sake.

“He was fine with it,” Morse shrugged, and George blinked in surprise. “We didn’t talk much about it, actually. It was after we’d found you, and we were getting you into the car to take you to the hospital—” and Morse paused a moment, swallowed hard “—and before we got in ourselves, Strange took me aside and, well, just seemed to figure it out from the look on my face or something.” It was said a humorous way, but Morse wore his heart so much on his sleeve George wouldn’t be surprised if it was true. “He was very alright with it. Offered support even, and promised me he wouldn’t tell anyone else.”

“He didn't tell me he'd found out when he came to visit."

Morse shrugged. "Maybe he didn't want to bring up something big like that while you were still recovering," he suggested.

Honestly, George hadn’t had much doubt that he’d support them, but having it confirmed was still a bit of a shock, though a very good one. George laughed a little and squeezed Morse's hand, moving closer to wrap an arm around his waist. It felt almost unreal to have him so close again, unreal in the most wonderful of ways, and George kissed him slowly. Morse laughed softly and kissed back.

After dinner, George persuaded Morse to stay the night, and now that he didn't have to keep up a pretense for Jim, he agreed right away.

“I’m so glad you’re out of hospital, George,” Morse told him later when they were pressed close in George's bed. He watched George's face, pausing before continuing. “What you did… that took courage. And I was so worried for you, but I want you to know that I’m proud. You were so brave, George.”

George was momentarily speechless, and he just smiled and stroked a hand over Morse’s hair. Blushing lightly, Morse pressed a kiss to George’s forehead.

“I think we should go to sleep now, it’s starting to get late.” Morse suggested, and George hummed in agreement.

“Yeah, I think so. Goodnight, love.”

***

It was still a few weeks before he officially had to start at the new station, and George was glad to have some time to do things like buy food, clean, and get settled in his flat again. Morse did his best to help and make sure George didn’t overtax himself; he went to the store with him to buy food, and helped clean out the refrigerator and take out the bins. He started spending more and more time at George’s flat, for meals and sometimes to sleep, and George enjoyed the subtle but significant change, and the feeling that came with it, the feeling that they were truly a proper couple.

George still had nightmares sometimes, and because the shooter hadn’t been caught he still didn’t feel completely safe. On the nights when Morse slept over, he’d hold George in his arms and comfort him, and George always felt far more safe knowing Morse was there, and sleep would come back to him more easily. If he was honest with himself, he hadn’t thought Morse would stick around for so long; it was one thing that he’d been able to start a relationship with such a man in the first place, but the fact that he’d stuck around through George’s long recovery from being shot and helped him so supportively through the physical and emotional difficulties, that was something else.

Morse was a keeper, Shirley told him a few days later, when the two of them visited her flat in London for the first time. The two of them were on their own for the moment, while Morse was getting another bottle of champagne and some food.

“And you better treat him right, you hear me? Or else I’ll hurt you. He deserves nothing less.”

“Of course I will,” George answered seriously. “He only deserves the best.” And he meant it.

Soon Morse was back, and George grabbed his hand and pulled him down to sit with George on the carpeted floor. Morse laughed, kissing George, then pulled back just long enough to open the new bottle and playfully throw a large bag of crisps at Shirley.

“How are you feeling?” Morse asked him quietly. “Alright?”

George nodded. “I’m just fine, love.”

Morse gave him a beautiful, genuine smile, and George melted.

“You?”

“Perfect,” Morse said, leaning into George, and George reached for his hand. They would do so well together. They’d both take care of each other and protect each other and do right by each other, and it was then that George realized: he was in love. He was so very in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I don’t think I’m quite ready to be done writing about these boys tbh... there might be some smaller ficlets in this same universe in the future if anyone's interested!! Please lmk, & maybe give me prompts if there's something specific you want to see? Xx


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